


The King Under the Mountain

by Evandar



Series: The Kings of the North [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mentor Dain, Partial Fix-It, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Thorin's fate was cruel...but perhaps it was for the best.</i> - Dain has every hope that Fili will be a great king. He's already better at receiving bad news than his uncle ever was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King Under the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Reverse Bang 2014 on Tumblr, inspired by the art of Lynndyre.

“News, my King, from the Men in Dale,” he says.

King Fili doesn’t dress like a king. There’s finery scattered throughout the mountain – most of it still in the hoard Smaug amassed in the treasury, but far more accessible now than when the dragon was on top of it – but King Fili doesn’t touch it. His clothes are rich, to be sure, but worn and comfortable, and he spends most of his time trying to restore his kingdom than sitting on its throne. It’s made him popular, although considered a little odd: the stories shared by the rest of Thorin’s Company, the ones that say the hoard had no hold over him _or_ his brother, seem to have an element of truth to them.

Odd. But a good kid with a good heart. Dain has every faith that he’ll be fine.

Fili dusts off his hands and straightens. “News?”

“Aye,” Dain tells him. “Some of the lads brought it back with them this morning, and you’ll need to hear it before you head to any more of those meetings.”

Weariness flashes over Fili’s face, and Dain snorts. Elves and Wizards have the ability to talk in spirals when separate; together they’re an absolute headache. Tharkûn is a meddler at heart – a “shit stirrer”, to quote his lad – though, like Fili, his heart seems to be in the right place; Thranduil doesn’t have much of a personality at all, save from his perverse desire to be as difficult as possible even as he helps.

“Do I need to sit down?” Fili asks.

“No, but it’s a conversation best had over an ale.”

He could keep it short and sweet. He could just deliver his message and go back to micromanaging the restoration of a kingdom that isn’t his, but that is his closest ally. It’s not like either of them are short of jobs to do. But Fili is only slightly older than his own lad – aye, closer in age to Thorin than he is to Kili – and Dain is a father as much as he is a diplomat. And given that Fili has been driven to clutching his brother’s hand for comfort in the aforementioned diplomatic meetings, Dain thinks that he needs a father as much as he needs an advisor.

Or, at least, someone willing to fill part of the void that Oakenshield left behind him – poor, mad, selfish bastard.

He guides Fili away from his project, his fellow workers bidding him a fond farewell as they make their way through twisting halls to the nearest beer barrel. It’s a longer walk than it should have been: if Smaug hadn’t done such an excellent job of smashing the internal walkways, it would only have taken them five minutes to reach the hall where Bombur Borbur-ul has set up his kitchen; as it is, it takes them half an hour.

There’s silence between them as they walk, but it’s not awkward. It’s gratifying to think that Fili trusts him – or, perhaps, just likes him – enough for that. He doesn’t want to presume trust, even amongst his distant kin and his allies. Not when he refused his help when it came to this hare-brained quest in the first place.

The kitchens are always welcoming, and the hearth fire is blazing. The ale is surprisingly good, and Mahal only knows where it came from (he doesn’t _remember_ any of his warriors rushing to battle with a keg on his back, but he wouldn’t put it past them), but it’s more than welcome.

They settle at a long table together, separate from the other Dwarves supping there, and Dain takes a long draught from his mug to keep from speaking a little longer. Fili mimics him, and wipes his moustaches dry on the back of his hand when he’s done.

“So,” he says. “News.”

News that’s either bad or good depending on a council of kings who barely know each other and who like each other even less (though he has his suspicions about that Bard chap and the Elvenking), but that Fili has to hear to keep on even footing with the rest.

“Bard Dragonsbane has been named King of Men in the North,” he says. “Of _all_ the Men in the North.”

Fili frowns. “I wouldn’t think the Master would approve,” he says, “being so attached to what power he has.”

“The Master has fled,” Dain tells him, and he sees the suspicion dawn in Fili’s eyes. He’s…getting quicker, Mahal bless him. Starting to think beyond the range of his sword and his boyhood dreams and look into the hearts of those around him. He’ll be a good King, sure enough, once he gets through the worst of the learning.

“We handed over the first payment for Esgaroth last night,” Fili says. He sighs and closes his eyes, and drinks deep from his tankard. “I take it that has vanished with him.”

“Aye,” Dain replies. “Into the East, or so I’ve heard, and his skulking henchman has gone with him. For company or to steal from him in the night, though it’s hard to say what would be more in character.”

Fili grimaces. “It’s desert there, so the maps say,” he says, and Dain nods. “Gold won’t feed them in a wasteland.”

“True enough. And now the Men are worse off than before – or better. One leader down, and the one that’s left is of sterner stuff, but that payment was…”

“Yes,” Fili says. “It was. And now it must be renegotiated. Will the Men still want Esgaroth, or will they settle in Dale now?”

Dain shrugs. It’s not his decision, nor is it Fili’s; it’s Bard’s, and he doesn’t envy the Man that. Oh, he’s an alright sort when he manages to get over his reluctance to talk, though he hasn’t got a shred of humour in his entire body (and dubious taste, if what he suspects about the Elvenking is true), and he’s a better leader already than that ‘Master’ ever was, but… It’s much like saying that mithril’s better at being silver than tin. And while he may be more than capable with a bow, and more personable than the conniving worm that was his predecessor, he’s untried and untested and with a worse time than even Fili ahead of him.

Erebor, at least, provides adequate shelter.

Though… The Elvenking is probably schooling him in _some_ manner of diplomacy. Bard’s been a lot more confident since he handed those emeralds over, and from what he’s learned, it seems that Thranduil does treat his friends well once he decides to stop toying with them.

He looks to Fili. To the fine creases between his brows and the chewed ends of his fingers that twitch sporadically, as if his tankard is a poor substitute for his brother. Still just a lad, poor boy.

“Prepare another payment just in case,” Fili says after a while. “If the Men still want Esgaroth, and it would be better for us if they _did_ , then it shall not be said that the Dwarves took it from them a second time.”

Just a lad, aye, but a better King than Thorin could ever have been. And while Thorin’s fate was cruel…perhaps it was for the best.


End file.
